Pere Fouetteard
by Oldwickedsongs
Summary: A small Christmas yarn, meant to invoke smiles, and smirks in which Javert's true identity is unearthed by a child. RR


Author's Note: Merry Christmas, Happy Sabbath (Yule) to each and everyone. R/R/

Disclaimer: "If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended,

That you did but slumber'd here while these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme is no more yielding then a dream."

-Midsummer's Night Dream

**Pere Fouetteard **

**By: Lady Erised**

Her name is Charlotte, Javert knew this because he had heard her mother screaming it down the street at one point or another every day for the past couple of years. She was renowned in the neighborhood for being forever underfoot, an amusement to everyone but her mother without being a nuisance. Nothing was safe from Charlotte; not dutifully stacked goods, or pedestrians that stood in the way of this little brown-eyed tempest. She was pretty, common but not criminal with a crop of blondish brunette hair impossibly curly that bounced as she ran. She owned one dress that was, Javert remembered, coral when new- bejeweled with lace and ribbons. Now, it was dull peach, ribbons long since trampled underfoot by this lively spirit. Her skin was pale, flushed with the red from chill, and sometimes- especially during the winter- ashen and dull from malnutrition. But she always smiled, always giggled, and always misbehaved.

Except today.

Today she was standing pristinely on the sidewalk opposite at the Police Inspector first class with that cool, sagely expression children at times held when keeping something in study. She'd been there for most of the past week watching him ignore her. When he glanced over, she would put her hands in front of her and twist her fingers, staring at him, her little brow furrowed in concentration. When he looked away, she would exhale and then frown at herself before continue in her study.

Today, he decided he had enough. Crossing the street, people did what they normally did when Javert came: they fled. The effect of the throngs parting, as well as the wind sending his black overcoat billowing like menacing wings must have done wonders in the child's small imagination because Charlotte gasped and retreated one pace for every step he took forward. He stared down at her, coolly.

"Well?" He snapped. "What is it?"

"I…Sir."

"Yes?"

"I…"

"Why do you follow me about?"

"I have a question for you, sir."

"Well, then spit it out. Now. I don't have time to be speaking with you unless you need me. What do you want?"

Charlotte frowned seriously and nodded. "Mother tells me you make sure everyone behaves. Is this true, sir?"

Javert arched a brow, somewhere between dismay and reluctant approval. His life was easily summed up in the child's words and he decided quickly he would rather not delve too deeply into the ramifications of that fact. "I do."

"All year round, sir?"

"Yes, all year round."

"And if we don't, you punish us, sir?"

"Simply put, yes."

"Sir," Charlotte began nervously, then gave dark, conspiratorial looks to the left and right. Out of pure curiosity, Javert followed her gaze. She looked up then, and beckoned him closer. Javert was quite certain that whatever followed next he would regret. Still, he kneeled down and offered his ear.

Charlotte leaned forward, after one more long searching look before asking. "You're Father Whip, aren't you?"

It took a moment for Javert to understand the question before responding, and that regret he knew he would get was now crawling up the back of his spine and settling behind his eyes. It was forming a headache. He didn't know if he should laugh, be offended, and then laugh or just stare at the child quietly till she ran away. Instead he turned and stared into Charlotte's sagely eyes and waited.

"You're Father Whip. Maman says you go with Father Christmas out and visit the children and if children are naughty or mean, you beat them. I've seen you do it to the thugs and painted ladies. Everyone fears you because they know you can tell Father Christmas not to bring gifts." She stepped back and waved an accusing finger at him. "I know you."

Javert chewed on his lip, in thought. For a moment, he was pinned between embarrassed anger and the infallible logic of a child. Charlotte would not have had believed him had he denied being the mythical creature: or worst, would believe him and then lose all faith in season and then, the regarded truth of right rewarded and wrong punished.

Now, Javert knew acutely he was a man who made weighty decisions on a daily basis. His hand, stayed or moved, could change the course of a life or lives. This was not something the Police Inspector took lightly or toyed with. He was no stranger to it, nor did he ever face a situation where he shied from this action. Until now.

He stepped back mentally to assess the situation and somewhat begrudgingly admire the girl's thought process. Father Whip was the companion of Father Christmas as dark as the esteemed Saint was fair, and Javert smiled gingerly to acknowledge how his own dark complexion must mirrored Whip's. He went about, weighing each child on their merit with Father Christmas and should the child be found wanting; it was Father Whip's duty to render punishment. It was as said earlier, in the simplest terms, exactly what Javert's own occupation demanded.

Now, the hermit, and stoic in Javert instantly riled up within him to rebuke the child and address her silly inclinations. But something silenced him, as he stared into her small knowing eyes, so screwed with the gravity of the situation and earnest admiration that her very own Police Inspector, the same one she'd seen about her streets, should hold such an august position.

So, Police Inspector Javert did the only thing he could in this situation. He gave no smile, nor frown but cast dark looks to his right and left before meeting her gaze gently and placing one gloved fingers to his lips.

Charlotte's face exploded into excitement. She went for a moment as if she would speak, or shout, and laugh but with restraint Javert had never seen in her, Charlotte quickly steeled her expression. She did however, lean forward, cupping an icy hand about Javert's ear and telling him in the same serious tone, "I want a porcelain doll and mommy needs a shawl."

She turned smartly on her heels and ran then, leaving Javert squatting in the snow, watching her run away.

Maybe he was getting old, less vicious he thought coolly as he watched Charlotte run off and collect under her mother's watchful, but tired eye. She looked back for a second only and smiled at him knowingly before turning away. Maybe, he reasoned quietly and without the normal scorn that accompanied such thoughts, his own Gypsy blood was rising at this time; bidding him pay homage to all that was magical and mystical on the world. Mother Goddess, and Father God could do with a little respect now, and then. Charlotte would learn the truth of such magicks later on in her life. For now, Javert decided solemnly as he returned to the steady pace of his beat, he could allow her the dreams.

Tis the season, after all.


End file.
